The Eye of Dread Part 20

The three then drove slowly back to the top of the bluff, and on the way Bertrand explained to the Elder all that had transpired. "It seemed best to Mary and me that you should look the ground over yourself, before any action be taken. We hoped appearances might be deceptive, and that you would have information that would set our fears at rest before news of a mystery should reach the town."

"Where are the boys who found these things?"

Mr. Walters spoke, "My son was one of them, and he is now at home.

They are forbidden to speak to any one until we know more about it."

Arrived at the top of the bluff the three men went carefully over the ground, even descending the steep path to the margin of the river.

"There," said Bertrand, "the notebook was picked up on that flat rock which juts out from that narrow ledge. John Walters crawled along the ledge to get it. The handkerchief was caught on that thorn shrub, halfway up, see? And the pencil was picked up down here, somewhere."

The Elder looked up to the top of the bluff and down at the rushing river beneath, and as he looked he seemed visibly to shrink and become in the instant an old man--older by twenty years. As they climbed back again, his shoulders drooped and his breath came hard. As they neared the top, Bertrand turned and gave him his aid to gain a firm footing above.

"Don't forget that we can't always trust to appearances," he urged.

"Some heavy body--heavier than a clod of earth, has gone down there,"

said the Elder, and his voice sounded weak and thin.

"Yes, yes. But even so, a stone may have been dislodged. You can't be sure."

"Ay, the lads might have been wrestling in play--or the like--and sent a rock over; it's like lads, that," hazarded Mr. Walters.

"Wrestling on the Sabbath evening! They are men, not lads."

Mr. Walters looked down in embarra.s.sment, and the old man continued.

"Would a stone leave a handkerchief clinging to a thorn? Would it leave a notebook thrown down on yonder rock?" The Elder lifted his head and looked to the sky: holding one hand above his head he shook it toward heaven. "Would a stone leave a hat marked with a b.l.o.o.d.y hand--my son's hat? There has been foul play here. May the curse of G.o.d fall on him who has robbed me of my son, be he stranger or my own kin."

His voice broke and he reeled backward and would have fallen over the brink but for Bertrand's quickness. Then, trembling and bowed, his two friends led him back to the carryall and no further word was spoken until they reached the village, when the Elder said:--

"Will you kindly drive me to the bank, Mr. Ballard?"

They did so. No one was there, and the Elder quietly unlocked the door and carried the articles found on the bluff into the room beyond and locked them away. Bertrand followed him, loath to leave him thus, and anxious to make a suggestion. The Elder opened the door of a cupboard recessed into the wall and laid the hat on a high shelf. Then he took the stick and looked at it with a sudden awakening in his eyes as if he saw it for the first time.

"This stick--this blackthorn stick--accursed! How came it here? I thought it had been burned. It was left years ago in my front hall by--Richard's father. I condemned it to be burned."

"Peter Junior was using that in place of his crutch, no doubt because of its strength. He had it at my house, and I recognize it now as one Larry brought over with him--"

"Peter was using it! My G.o.d! My G.o.d! The blow was struck with this. It is my son who is the murderer, and I have called down the curse of G.o.d on him? It falls--it falls on me!" He sank in his chair--the same in which he had sat when he talked with Peter Junior--and bowed his head in his arms. "It is enough, Mr. Ballard. Will you leave me?"

"I can't leave you, sir: there is more to be said. We must not be hasty in forming conclusions. If any one was thrown over the bluff, it must have been your son, for he was lame and could not have saved himself. If he struck any one, he could not have killed him; for evidently he got away, unless he also went over the brink. If he got away, he must be found. There is something for you to do, Elder Craigmile."

The old man lifted his head and looked in Bertrand's face, pitifully seeking there for help. "You are a good man, Mr. Ballard. I need your counsel and help."

"First, we will go below the rapids and search; the sooner the better, for in the strong current there is no telling how far--"

"Yes, we will search." The Elder lifted himself to his full height, inspired by the thought of action. "We'll go now." He looked down on his shorter friend, and Bertrand looked up to him, his genial face saddened with sympathy, yet glowing with kindliness.

"Wait a little, Elder; let us consider further. Mr. Walters--sit down, Elder Craigmile, for a moment--Mr. Walters is capable, and he can organize the search; for if you keep this from your wife, you must be discreet. Here is something I haven't shown you before. It is the charm from Richard's watch. It was almost covered with earth where they had been struggling, and Mary found it. You see there is a mystery--and let us hope whatever happened was an accident. The evidences are so--so--mingled, that no one may know whom to blame."

The Elder looked down on the charm without touching it, as it lay on Bertrand's palm. "That belonged--" his lips twitched--"that belonged to the man who took from me my twin sister. The shadow--forever the shadow of Larry Kildene hangs over me." He was silent for some moments, then he said: "Mr. Ballard, if, after the search, my son is found to be murdered, I will put a detective on the trail of the man who did the deed, and be he whom he may, he shall hang."

"Hush, Elder Craigmile; in Wisconsin men are not hanged."

"I tell you--be he whom he may--he shall suffer what is worse than to be hanged, he shall enter the living grave of a life imprisonment."

CHAPTER XIII

CONFESSION

By Monday evening there were only two people in all the small town of Leauvite who had not heard of the tragedy, and these were Hester Craigmile and Betty Ballard. Mary doubted if it was wise to keep Hester thus in ignorance, but it was the Elder's wish, and at his request she went to spend the evening and if necessary the night with his wife, to fend off any officious neighbor, while he personally directed the search.

It was the Elder's firm belief that his son had been murdered, yet he thought if no traces should be found of Peter Junior, he might be able to spare Hester the agony of that belief. He preferred her to think her son had gone off in anger and would sometime return. He felt himself justified in this concealment, fearing that if she knew the truth, she might grieve herself into her grave, and his request to Mary to help him had been made so pitifully and humbly that her heart melted at the sight of the old man's sorrow, and she went to spend those weary hours with his wife.

As the Elder sometimes had meetings of importance to take him away of an evening, Hester did not feel surprise at his absence, and she accepted Mary's visit as one of sweet friendliness and courtesy because of Peter's engagement to Betty. Nor did she wonder that the visit was made without Bertrand, as Mary said he and the Elder had business together, and she thought she would spend the time with her friend until their return.

That was all quite as it should be and very pleasant, and Hester filled the moments with cheerful chat, showing Mary certain pieces of cloth from which she proposed to make dainty garments for Betty, to help Mary with the girl's wedding outfit. To Mary it all seemed like a dream as she locked the sad secret in her heart and listened. Her friend's sorrow over Peter Junior's disagreement with his father and his sudden departure from the home was tempered by the glad hope that after all the years of anxiety, she was some time to have a daughter to love, and that her boy and his wife would live near them, and her home might again know the sound of happy children's voices. The sweet thoughts brought her gladness and peace of mind, and Mary's visit made the dream more sure of ultimate fulfillment.

Mary felt the Elder's wish lie upon her with the imperative force of a law, and she did not dare disregard his request that on no account was Hester to be told the truth. So she gathered all her fort.i.tude and courage to carry her through this ordeal. She examined the fine linen that had been brought to Hester years ago from Scotland by Richard's mother, and while she praised it she listened for steps without; the heavy tread of men bringing a sorrowful and terrible burden. But the minutes wore on, and no such sounds came, and the hour grew late.

"They may have gone out of town. Bertrand said something about it, and told me to stay until he called for me, if I stayed all night." Mary tried to laugh over it, and Hester seized the thought gayly.

"We'll go to bed, anyway, and your husband may just go home without you when he comes."

And after a little longer wait they went to bed, and Hester slept, but Mary lay wakeful and fearing, until in the early morning, while it was yet dark, she heard the Elder slowly climb the stairs and go to his room. Then she also slept, hoping against hope, that they had found nothing.

Betty's pride and shame had caused her to keep her trouble to herself.

She knew Richard had gone forever, and she dreaded Peter Junior's next visit. What should she do! Oh, what should she do! Should she tell Peter she did not love him, and that all had been a mistake? She must humble herself before him, and what excuse had she to make for all the hours she had given him, and the caresses she had accepted? Ah! If only she could make the last week as if it had never been! She was shamed before her mother, who had seen him kiss her. She was ashamed even in her own room in the darkness to think of all Peter Junior had said to her, and the love he had lavished on her. Ought she to break her word to him and beg him to forget? Ah! Neither he nor she could ever forget.

Her brothers had been forbidden to tell her a word of the reports that were already abroad in the town, and now they were both in bed and asleep, and little Janey was cuddled in Betty's bed, also in dreamland. At last, when neither her father nor her mother returned and she could bear her own thoughts no longer, she brought drawing materials down from the studio and spread them out on the dining room table.

She had decided she would never marry any one--never. How could she!

But she would study in earnest and be an ill.u.s.trator. If women could never become great artists, as Peter Junior said, at least they might ill.u.s.trate books; and sometime--maybe--when her heart was not so sad, she might write books, and she could ill.u.s.trate them herself. Ah, that would almost make up for what she must go without all her life.

For a while she worked painstakingly, but all the time it seemed as though she could hear Richard's voice, and the words he had said to her Sunday morning kept repeating themselves over and over in her mind. Then the tears fell one by one and blurred her work, until at last she put her head down on her arms and wept. Then the door opened very softly and Richard entered. Swiftly he came to her and knelt at her side. He put his head on her knee, and his whole body shook with tearless sobs he could not restrain. He was faint and weak. She could not know the whole cause of his grief, and thought he suffered because of her. She must comfort him--but alas! What could she say? How could she comfort him?

She put her trembling hand on his head and found the hair matted and stiff. Then she saw a wound above his temple, and knew he was hurt, and cried out: "You are hurt--you are hurt! Oh, Richard! Let me do something for you."

He clasped her in his arms, but still did not look up at her, and Betty forgot all her shame, and her lessons in propriety. She lifted his head to her bosom and laid her cheek upon his and said all the comforting things that came into her heart. She begged him to let her wash his wound and to tell her how he came by it. She forgot everything, except that she loved him and told him over and over the sweet confession.

At last he found strength to speak to her brokenly. "Never love me any more, Betty. I've committed a terrible crime--Oh, my G.o.d! And you will hear of it Give me a little milk. I've eaten nothing since yesterday morning, when I saw you. Then I'll try to tell you what you must know--what all the world will tell you soon."

He rose and staggered to a chair and she brought him milk and bread and meat, but she would not let him talk to her until he had allowed her to wash the wound on his head and bind it up. As she worked the touch of her hands seemed to bring him sane thoughts in spite of the horror of himself that possessed him, and he was enabled to speak more coherently.

"If I had not been crazed when I looked through the window and saw you crying, Betty, I would never have let you see me or touch me again.

It's only adding one crime to another to come near you. I meant just to look in and see if I could catch one glimpse of you, and then was going to lose myself to all the world, or else give myself up to be hung." Then he was silent, and she began to question him.